Mike and I have known each other since we were 18-year-old freshmen at UW-Madison. At Spring Break, we drove my old VW Bug to Daytona with the plan to trade transportation for space on someone's hotel room carpet. It worked for the most part, except for a night or two on the beach, which I learned wasn't as comfortable as I imagined.
Mike's favorite story from that trip is when the car keys fell out of my pocket during one of those overnights on the sand. We didn't really have a Plan B so we started kicking up sand from around where I slept. Somehow, I managed to kick up the car keys to our mutual surprise. Luck sometimes comes to the young and foolish.
I lost touch with many of my college friends over the years. Mike and I reconnected through a Lodi friend who was someone that Mike worked and socialized with. Mike and his wife Kathy lived in Madison, but sold that house and built a retirement log cabin on a northern Wisconsin lake where the winter is long, and summer is brief.
We had a great time, hanging out and telling stories of the old days. Mike took us out on his pontoon boat where we slowly cruised for several hours.
 |
Mike, me, and Brad
|
 |
Fran, Kathy, and Julia
|
That night, Mike grilled up a big slab of flank steak and later made (from scratch) strawberry shortcake with whipped cream.
With Brad, Fran, Mike, Kathy, and Mike's son Robb staying in the cabin, we elected to bring the Scamp along. We found an RV park about a mile from Mike's place. We had some concerns about what it might be like. There were no pictures or reviews on the internet, and the campground manager said that she had plenty of space on what would normally be a busy summer weekend with great weather.
When we pulled up, we saw a trailer park on one side and tiny crowded cabins on the other side. Our hearts sank, "Oh, no." But a hand-painted sign directed us to the campground at the rear of the property on a deeply rutted gravel driveway. Much to our surprise, it was kinda nice. It took awhile to get level, but there was lots of space, and only a few seasonal campers, the nearest of which was more than a baseball throw away. And it was quiet.
 |
From the Scamp's back window
|
Comments